Certain architectures begin, in a sketch maybe
remotely foretold, of archways and pigeon colours
at the end of a cloister of recoiled flights and
known echoes of coos, of morning prayers
tossed by the handful like breadcrumbs.
By them I pass without really passing
quietly glancing at them as I would at squares
traced across my breast, and listening
at the end of tangencies between bells tolling
and folds of wings, to the inescapable breath
of other colours, seeping through the skylight.
And I feed them, as I rip the silence in which
I sew and hush myself, so that they may
also rip through and procreate, clear.
And I bless them, in the name of the stone
of the dream and of the holy touch.
Let happiness rise! – Our constructions
are within time, and, to our own image
they flow, like gods.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®